


Not Yet

by Ghelik



Series: The 100 Fics [52]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Child Death, F/M, Suicide, This is not Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15405825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: Clarke finds Madi's body in their home.





	Not Yet

**Author's Note:**

> I blame aainiouu, mommabeargriffin, halfbloodduchess and sunnyemori for this.  
> Also.  
> this is dark and deals with semi-graphic depictions of death and suicide, so if that's a trigger for you, please proceed with caution.

There are some things that are unfathomable, incomprehensible in their impossibility. Like warm ice, or dry water. Things that don’t go, can’t go together in the same sentence. Madi’s body, broken on the ground is one of those unbelievable things.

There is an incongruity in her small blood-splattered hand unmoving on the floorboards of her home; in her bright blue eyes staring unseeing at the wall.

Her brain refuses to process the deep gash on the back of her neck, the awkward angle of her left arm, the paleness of her skin.

No. She’s sleeping.

Clarke kneels by her side, her hand landing lightly on her bony shoulder.

 _Baby, it’s time to wake up_ , she wants to say. She wants to shake her and kiss her and tickle her until Madi’s shrieking and squirming to get away. But her hand doesn’t seem able to move. Now that she’s touching the soft leather of her jacket, her whole arm seems frozen.

Clarke leans forward.

Madi’s eyes don’t move to follow the movement; the pupils don’t contract. There’s no breath to stir the strands of her hair.

_Come on, we’ll go to the berry field. We’ll get new paint and you’ll get to die my whole head if you want._

Her skin is ice cold and Clarke knows what that means, but it seems ridiculous. It can’t be, because…

 _Madi, stop playing games. This isn’t funny._  

She opens her mouth to tell her to quit playing around. But there is no air left in her lungs. Her mouth cannot form words this whole situation cannot be happening.

Surely, surely this is a nightmare. She’ll wake up, and she will be in the rover, laying in the back, sun filtering through the barred windows, Madi’s pointy elbow digging into her side, the perfume of drying herbs all around her.

That’s it. That must be it, because otherwise…

“Madi wake up!”

She shakes her body, hard. Her head lolls slightly to the side, her leg falls to the side, her small bare foot landing on the dusty floorboards.

Madi doesn’t wake up.

Neither does Clarke.

 

There are some things that are unfathomable, incomprehensible in their impossibility, like air in space or this small box and that large stone, like the hole on the ground and the hand on her shoulder, propping her up.

It’s a magician’s box. The people from before the bombs used them to do escapism tricks. Just a moment longer and the box will pop open.

Or maybe it’ll happen when they lower it into the ground.

They’re starting to cover it with dirt.

The box will open. It has to open because if it doesn’t, she’ll suffocate down there.

Clarke wants to say something, but she feels like she’s underwater.

The hole is completely covered. Now, now she has to escape. She’ll appear with her cockiest smile and stop this. Madi has never been cruel, so why is she doing this now?

Where is her little girl?

Clarke can’t stop staring at the stone. At the letters carefully etched on the flat surface.

_Come on, Madi, it’s time to go home!_

But there are no words in her mouth, only the salty taste of tears.

 

Madi’s bed smells of flowers, the thick tang of wet dirt and the sweet-ish hint of sweat. It smells of nights on top of the rover’s hood watching the stars, of fairytales and pillow-fights, of finding new trinkets for her hair and pressed flowers, of teeth under the pillow and the flu, of nightmares and borrowed naps and teenage dreams.

Clarke forgets to take her boots off when she curls on top of the quilt. The dirt on the flowery cloth remembers how many times she chastised Madi for putting her feet on the bed.

She waits for the girl to walk through the doors and make some sassy comment.

But the door remains closed and the girl doesn’t waltz in. Will never walk through that door again. She will never kick her off her bed again. Will never throw her clothes carelessly on the chair again. Will never unbraid her hair again. Will never smile her drowsy smile at Clarke again. Will never beg for five more minutes again. Will never cuss in trig under her breath again. Will never run to her arms again whenever Clarke’s hunting expeditions take longer than anticipated.

She is not coming back. Madi is not coming back.

A loud, ugly sob raises from her throat, and she buries her head between knees.

She wants to wake up. She only wants to wake up from this nightmare.

 

 

Someone comes and makes her stand up. They push food into her hands, they give her water from Madi’s favorite glass and open the windows. The draft shakes the pictures taped to the walls: the picture of Madi’s real parents, the drawing of the village, the tree Madi gave her a few years ago.

They’re talking to her, but it feels like white noise, nonsensical words she can’t process.

 

 

Madi’s standing in the middle of the room, knife in hand, surrounded by faceless people. She slices someone’s arm, kicks another in the groin, as the group advances on her. Someone slams their foot so hard against Madi’s knee, it shatters. The girl goes down with an agonizing cry, and that’s the moment the rest was waiting for. They disarm her. Pin her to the ground and use her own knife to slice the back of her neck open. Madi screams and bucks and cries and begs. They tear the chip out. Madi’s still alive when they smash it with her knife’s hilt. She’s still alive when they leave her to bleed out on the floor. Crying and unable to move and terrified. She’s still alive. She’s still alive.

Clarke wakes with a jolt a scream halfway up her throat.

Her house is empty and dark and cold.

 

 

She can’t sleep. Every time she closes her eyes she sees it: the fight, the knife going into her neck, her desperate fight. She hears her shrill screams, her hurried pleas, her promises.

There should be a stain on the floorboards. Clarke touches the wood. Why isn’t there a stain. This is where someone slaughtered her daughter, there should be a sign. Something. Why isn’t there anything here?

 

Her hands throb. When she looks down at them someone has bandaged every single finger in gray cloth. Picking it off is difficult without any sense of touch, but it keeps her mind occupied for a few minutes. Her fingers are caked in black blood, the nails broken. One of them is completely missing. She’s vaguely aware of the fact that it hurts. Or it should hurt. But it doesn’t.

Curious thing this black blood. Weird. Blood should not be black. If Madi hadn’t had black blood she wouldn’t have been killed. She wouldn’t have been a commander and nobody would’ve dreamed of hurting her. Because Madi’s sweet and kind and smart.

 

 

Guns are weird incongruous things. So black and ugly. So elegant and beautiful. Smooth and cool to the touch.

 

 

Clarke can’t sleep. This is all her fault, really. She got herself captured by Eligius, leaving Madi alone. She had allowed Octavia to make Madi her second instead of hightailing out of the bunker as soon as she had the chance. She had not destroyed the flame when she had the chance. She had not stopped the ascension. She had not taken the flame out of Madi’s head. She had not protected her.

This was all her fault. If she hadn’t befriended Madi when she was a lone child, Madi would still be alive.

But she hadn’t. She had to take her in. She had to love Madi and that was the real death sentence. The moment she started loving her beautiful natblida was the moment her fate was sealed.

They did well leaving her alone, because she destroys everyone that’s important. She shouldn’t even be here. What happens with the commander of death when there is no one left to kill? There’s always someone left: be it a dangerous criminal or a sweet girl.

But she hadn’t killed the criminal. She had not killed Emerson, she hadn’t killed Cage, she hadn’t killed Doctor Tsing. No, she only killed people she loved.

Maybe that’s why she had spent so much time alone. Maybe she had known all along that she was dangerous. Maybe she should remove herself before she killed someone else. Maybe….

 

She finds Madi’s favorite shirt in the basked for clothes that need mending. Threading the needle is difficult with her numb fingers, but she blinks and someone’s offering it to her. She stitches the tear even though the cloth is threadbare and she has threatened a hundred times of repurposing it. But she never did. And never will, not until it falls off Madi’s bony shoulders or until the girl stops liking it.

She’s halfway done when she suddenly remembers that it will never happen. Madi will never again wear this shirt. She will not grow tired of it.

How could she forget? What sort of monster is she?

Someone takes the needle out of her wrist and presses a cloth to the puncture wound. They’re talking, but she can’t understand what they’re saying.

 

 

Clarke’s tired.

So tired.

 

 

The group of attackers changes whenever she finds herself sleeping. Sometimes it’s faceless grounders. Others it’s faceless arkers. Sometimes it’s Cage and Emerson and McCreary and other monsters she thought she had vanquished, back to take their revenge. Sometimes it’s Octavia, sometimes it’s Clarke herself. Madi’s always alive when they leave her, and stays alive for a long time after the attack and every second feels like someone’s stabbing her heart.

 

 

The metallic weight of her handgun was once a familiar friend. Her fingers fitted perfectly around the handle, the arch of the trigger a sensual promise of power. Now it feels clunky and unkind. The muzzle holds so many promises, though. The promise of silence, the promise of peace.

It takes a moment to find a comfortable place for it.

Just one kiss and she’ll see her little girl again. She’ll sleep, and she’ll stop hurting people. Her people will be save.

Clarke closes her eyes. _I am coming, Madi._ Her finger caresses the trigger.

Someone slaps her hand sending the gun flying out of her grasp. They kick it out of reach.

Clarke looks at the black gun and the black boot and anger rises like wave inside her. It burns like wildfire, rolling through her veins like a thunderstorm. With a furious shout she launches herself at them, colliding with a firm chest she knows all too well.

Bellamy’s arms go around her, locking her in like iron bands and she’s furious.

She shouts at him to let her go, scratches at his chest and tries to kick his shins, but he’s unmovable.

She calls him every name in the world and then some. But he doesn’t let her go. Her anger ebbs away at some point, leaving only bone-deep tiredness. He has defeated her and as tears well up in her eyes, she feels herself shattering. Over and over again.

Why? Why must he take this away from her? Why can’t he let her go? Why is he here? Why can’t this nightmare be over already? Why can’t she go with Madi?

“Please, just let me go.”

“You are not alone, Clarke.”

“I just want this to end.”

He kisses the top of her head, crushing her against his chest like he can keep her together if only he squeezes tightly enough.

“I know.”

“It hurts too much, Bellamy. Please let me go.”

He inhales, it sounds ragged and painful. “I can’t do that.”

“Please!”

Something wet falls on her hair. “Not yet.”

She pulls away, just enough to look him in the eye. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“I know.” His face is earnest, eyes are red-rimmed and surrounded by deep purplish shadows. “But we still need you.”

“I can’t-“

He cups her face, his palm scorching hot against her skin. “Just a little while longer, ok? I know it’s too much to ask, but-“ his voice breaks and something small and faint in her chest twitches. “Hold on just a little bit longer. Please?”

She doesn’t want to.

She wants to get this over with. She wants to stop being in pain. Wants to stop seeing Madi everywhere and be reminded that she isn’t there. Wants to stop hurting people.

But she doesn’t want to hurt him either.

The small and quiet thing in her chest beats in counterpoint with the black void devouring her mind.

With a sigh she nods. Defeated. “A little longer. Then can I sleep?”

“Yes.”

She nods again, a small barely-there movement. She’s so tired.

“Stay with me a while.”

He pulls her to her feet and guides her to her own bed.

Clarke watches him take her boots off like it’s happening to someone else. When he guides her to the pillow, she lets her body obey the soft command. He pulls the blankets over her like he’s done it a thousand times. When he turns away, she grabs her wrist.

“Don’t go.”

Because if he leaves she’ll go for the gun, or the nightmares will come again, or-

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Clarke settles down on her pillow, watches him take a seat on an armchair at the foot of her bed. There’s a stack of books to one side and a blanket tangled on the armrest.

“Read to me?”

She falls asleep with his voice filling the silence of her home, and, when the nightmares wake up, an agonizing scream halfway out of her throat, he’s there. And it doesn’t take the pain away. It doesn’t vanquish the nightmares or stop her mind from wandering, but it helps.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting.


End file.
